The Geneva Connection Read online

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  The Geneva Connection

  Martin Bodenham

  ...

  An imprint of

  Musa Publishing

  Copyright Information

  The Geneva Connection, Copyright © Martin Bodenham, 2011

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

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  Musa Publishing

  633 Edgewood Ave

  Lancaster, OH 43130

  www.musapublishing.com

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  Published by Musa Publishing, December, 2011

  ...

  This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

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  ISBN: 978-1-61937-071-5

  ...

  Editor: Erica Mills

  Cover Design: Kelly Shorten

  Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna

  Warning

  This e-book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your e-books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.

  Dedication

  To Jules, my best friend

  Chapter One

  The spatters of blood on his hands were not the problem. It was the fleck on his jacket, standing out against the gray fabric; an obvious stain. A burst of contempt swept through Miguel Rios as he rubbed away at his sleeve, making it worse. Shit! The damn suit’s ruined.

  A thumping sound came from the trunk of the Mercedes. Rios leaned forward and shouted at the bull-necked driver. “Hit the fucking gas.”

  He slid back against the leather seat when the car accelerated. Moments later, a convoy of CEMEX trucks passed in the opposite direction, kicking up dust clouds and blocking much of his view of the grubby industrial area south of Tijuana. The dust cleared, revealing a graffiti-cloaked iron foundry. Outside its gates stood the charred skeleton of a vintage Buick that looked like it was trying to shaft the rear of an equally burned-out Corolla. What was he doing here? Ten years as head of the cartel’s enforcement team, and still he had to work in this shit-hole.

  They passed Plaza de Toros Monumental, and Rios chuckled to himself as he remembered that the locals called it the Bullring by the Sea. The road sign for Lazaro Cardenas looked ready to topple at the slightest breeze — almost there. When Juan swung the car into the dead-end road without hitting the brakes, Rios grabbed the handhold above the door. Drooping power cables from a weed-shrouded neighborhood substation across the street lined the route to the rear of a derelict sawmill. Juan stood on the brakes, and the Mercedes slewed to a stop, a haze of dust settling around it.

  Rios struck a match and held it to the tip of a cigar while Juan and the guy hired as extra muscle for this job climbed out of the car and popped the trunk. They reached inside and, with a grunt, hoisted out their victim, a sucker in his late thirties, stripped down to his underwear and bound at his wrists and ankles. He tried to yell through the duct tape wound around his face then tumbled to the ground, his head striking the car. Rios pivoted in his seat. Fucking idiot. That shut him up.

  Rios cracked open his window and pointed to the entrance of the building. “I’ll see you in there.” He sat back and dragged on the cigar, enjoying the air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes now the thumping had stopped.

  Juan grabbed the man by his hair and pulled him up. Both men dragged him backward by the arms, his bare heels scarring a line in the parched earth. They disappeared behind the metal sliding door.

  Rios turned on the rear-seat radio and tuned it to his favorite country and western station from across the border. They were playing Shania Twain. He snapped his fingers to the beat and thought about the girls at the bar he’d be visiting that night. He’d have to change his suit before they went out.

  He took several minutes to finish his cigar before stepping out of the car. He scanned the area as he walked into the building. Shafts of sunlight penetrated through holes in the roof like spotlights illuminating a stage. Rios sauntered over to the bloodied man, using the beams of light to avoid placing his designer loafers in the pools of stale rainwater on the concrete floor. He pointed to the back of the building with his chin. The henchmen picked the man up, carried him to a wooden chair bolted to the back wall, and strapped him in. The man looked down at the large pool of dried blood around his feet and began to shake. Rios glared at him, but said nothing. He slipped on a pair of leather gloves before tearing off the duct tape from the man’s head.

  “Please, Miguel.” Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the blood running from the corner of his swollen left eye.

  “Tell me about Merriman,” said Rios.

  “I swear I know nothing, Miguel.”

  Rios struck the man hard across the face with the back of his gloved fist. “Jivaro knows already. I want to hear everything you’ve told Merriman.”

  “I swear on the lives of my children, I’ve spoken to no one.”

  Rios smirked at his associates. “He thinks he’s a hard case. He thinks he’s going to hold out. He thinks I want to stand here and let him fuck with me.”

  “I don’t know this Merriman.”

  “He’s lying.” Rios nodded to one of his men. “Let’s see what 120 volts will do to change his mind.”

  The hired gorilla worked a pair of heavily insulated gloves onto his fat fingers then reached above the victim and pulled down two industrial electric cables. He threw the switch on the wall and brought the exposed ends of the wires closer together; they crackled.

  “Please, God, no.” Urine ran down the man’s leg as the leads were moved close to his groin.

  Rios leaned over the man and smiled. “Still nothing for me?”

  “I don’t know anything. I swear.” The man struggled against the bindings.

  Rios turned to his men. “Fry him.”

  His piercing screams echoed around the cavernous building. Rios heard footsteps, swung round, and raised his sunglasses. Two young boys stepped out from behind some rusting equipment at the far end of the building and sprinted out of the sliding door. He waited for a few moments before ordering the torture to continue. Still, the man yielded no information.

  “Leave him,” said Rios.

  He led his men outside into the bright sunlight. They leaned against the car and fired up cigarettes. They talked about the football match that night. Rios bragged how his team, the Chivas, would thrash Monterrey; no doubt about it.

  “The drill,” said Rios after ten minutes. One of the heavies reached into the front passenger footwell and retrieved an electric drill; a nice one, a Ryobi with an 18-volt powerpack built into the handle. They had a half-inch wood drill in the bit, stained black from the last time they’d used it.

  “Please, have mercy,” cried the victim when they returned. The wooden chair rocked as his contorted body fought in vain to slip free of the leather straps. Blood seeped out where the straps had cut into h
is skin.

  “Tell me about Merriman. It’ll be easier that way,” said Rios.

  “I’d tell you if I knew anything. You’ve known me for years, Miguel.” He was sobbing, and his voice was weak. “God knows I’d tell you.”

  Rios pointed to the hired muscle with the drill. He powered it up, revving the motor. The victim swung back and forth, his head banging against the wall. “Lord, save me,” he roared.

  “Only the knees,” said Rios, before walking outside. When he returned, there wasn’t much blood, but smoke and the smell of burning bone filled the air. He took a perfumed handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it to his nose.

  “This will go on all night. It makes no difference to me,” said Rios, staring into the man’s expressionless eyes. “We’re going to do your ribs next.”

  The man said nothing; he had no fight left. Rios pointed to his upper body, and the accomplice with the drill moved it toward the middle of the man’s ribcage. Before it made contact, the man passed out, his head falling forward onto his chest.

  “No more,” shouted Rios, and the drilling stopped. “He knows nothing. If it isn’t him, then who the fuck is it?” He pointed to the machete behind the wooden seat. “Finish it.”

  While Juan lifted the unconscious man up by his sweat-soaked hair, Rios turned to walk back to the car. He didn’t need to witness the final, bloody act. He’d seen it many times before.

  Chapter Two

  He couldn’t sleep. When he heard the first birds singing in his garden, Mark Merriman looked at the digital alarm clock: 3:58. He slid out of bed, taking care not to wake his wife, Patti. He went downstairs, made himself a strong coffee, and took it through to the study tucked away at the back of the house.

  He sat down to read a bunch of PowerPoint slides. These guys better approve this today. If they don’t, we’re going nowhere.

  On such an important day, he could have done with an early start at the office, but it was his birthday, and he couldn’t let his girls down. He’d already promised he’d have breakfast with them — blueberry pancakes with Aunt Jemima’s maple syrup, prepared by his two enthusiastic young daughters, and supervised by his wife. Patti had been his childhood sweetheart, and they married twelve years ago, not long after he joined the DEA. They’d always wanted a large family, but Patti’s medical problems a few years back meant there’d be no more children.

  On the twenty-minute drive in from their home at Herdman Park to the DEA’s headquarters in Springfield, Virginia, he ran through the morning’s presentation in his mind. What was the best way to play it? How were they likely to react?

  He pulled up at the entrance gates and flashed his ID at the bored-looking security guard.

  “Morning, Doug,” he said through his open car window.

  “How are you today, sir? Heavy traffic this morning? Normally, I can set my watch by you.”

  “The birthday boy got delayed. The kids couldn’t wait for me to open their presents.”

  The guard smiled and then raised the barrier. Merriman drove in and parked in his usual space under the main building. He took the elevator to the sixth floor. Now thirty-five, he was still the DEA’s youngest Head of Intelligence.

  He stepped out of the elevator and bumped into one of his team. Frank Halloran had joined Merriman’s unit a year earlier after a couple of years in the field with the DEA’s Mexico Division. Halloran wore a cheap suit and looked disheveled. Well over six feet tall, he towered over Merriman’s five feet seven inches.

  Halloran was twenty-four. While he was still a little rough around the edges, Merriman could see potential in him. His energy and dedication prompted memories of himself at that age.

  “Good weekend, boss?” asked Halloran, tightening his tie.

  “We were up in Maine visiting my parents. How about you?”

  “Spent most of it here, preparing for the presentation. I’ve left hard copies on your desk, and the meeting room’s all set. Let me know if there’s anything else.”

  “Good work, Frank. Who else was in?”

  “All of us at different times. We’ve got a lot to report this quarter.”

  Merriman made his way to his office, a twelve foot square box with one small window looking over an internal courtyard. On the wall behind his desk hung photos of him shaking hands with a number of high-profile congressmen and senators, a daily reminder for his staff that his team’s work was central to the war on drugs and in maintaining national security. The more astute politicians realized it did them no harm to be seen with DEA officials, taking a tough stance on drug crime. It played well at election times, as the public was increasingly concerned over drug cartels and the immense power they wielded south of the border.

  The mahogany credenza he used was once his father’s. On it stood several precious photos of his wife and daughters. His girls had inherited Merriman’s jet-black hair. He smiled as he thought about how Patti always said they got the good looks from her side of the family. Merriman straightened up the frames. The cleaners never put them back in the right spot. He looked over to the metal filing cabinet in the corner of his room. On the top sat a handful of gift-wrapped packages.

  “Just a few presents from the team,” said his secretary, popping her head round the door.

  “Morning, Gail. Have you been talking?”

  “Maybe,” she said, raising one eyebrow. “All set for today?”

  “I think so. I read through it all this morning. I’d kill for a coffee, though.”

  Merriman had developed a taste for strong coffee during his postings to South America. He couldn’t bring himself to drink the bland, sweet concoctions sold by the coffee chains in the US, so he’d invested in his own espresso machine, a top of the range Accademia Gaggia, which Gail kept in full working order just outside his office.

  “Double?”

  He shrugged. “Does it come in any other size?”

  “Happy birthday, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled and pointed an accusing finger at her. “Pretty certain it was you who talked.”

  Merriman drained his coffee before collecting two of his senior team members, Karen Camplejohn and Bill Greenough, from the open-plan pods outside his office door. They walked over to the conference room to prepare for their quarterly presentation to the DEA leadership.

  “I’ll set the scene and wrap up at the end, but I’d like you guys to handle most of this today. It’ll be a good opportunity for you to raise your profile.”

  Half an hour later, the seven other members of the DEA leadership filed in, taking up their usual positions around the table, arranged in an arc shape facing a large screen. Merriman and his team stood between the table and the screen.

  Merriman opened up by reminding everyone of the increasing danger posed by the Mexican drug cartels. Noting the visitors from the defense intelligence committee sat at the table, a senator from Wisconsin and one from Ohio, he took some time to explain the historical background.

  “In the late nineties, the Colombian cartels became much weaker as we succeeded in closing the cocaine trafficking route through Florida,” he said before pulling up a slide of a portrait of a man with a shaved head. “This man, Felix Safuentes, known as ‘Jivaro’ in the criminal underworld, recognized the opportunity to develop alternative supply routes across the Mexico/US land border. After a vicious turf war, his Caruana cartel emerged as the leading drug trafficking organization in Mexico. From ten cartels eight years ago, there are only two remaining, and his organization is by far the strongest, controlling virtually the whole of the North American criminal narcotics trade. As a result, Safuentes, at the age of thirty-eight, is the most powerful organized crime leader the world has known.”

  “Why do they call this Safuentes guy ‘Jivaro’?” asked the Ohio senator.

  “Because of his brutality,” said Merriman.

  “Still don’t get it.”

  Merriman looked at his senior DEA colleagues for a moment. They nodded. “D
uring the years of the Spanish Conquest, only one indigenous American tribe failed to be subjugated — the Jivaro warriors. They were fiercely independent and refused to bow to any external authority. They terrified their enemies by decapitating those they caught and collecting their shrunken heads.”

  The senator shook his head. “Jeez! Not sure I wanted to know that.”

  Camplejohn powered up the screen and pointed to the images that appeared. “What we have here are satellite shots of known cartel stash houses in the US. So far, we’ve identified almost fifty of them, mostly located along the southern states, but a number reaching up into the northwest and northeast coasts. We believe there are many more yet to be discovered.”

  She ran quickly through a number of slides demonstrating the successful drug seizures achieved through intelligence gathered by Merriman’s team, before handing over to her colleague.

  Greenough continued, “Last year, we shifted some of our attention to the cash generated from drug sales by the cartels. Last quarter, we reported increasing success in tracing their electronic fund transfers within the US banking network. As a result, most cartel money is now being shuttled back to Mexico in physical form.” He pressed the control in his hand, and on the screen images flashed up of aircraft, speedboats, and tunnels. “Besides hauling cash by road, these are some of the other methods used to transport the money through the border.”

  Greenough took several minutes to finish his session. “I’d now like to hand you back to Mark,” he said, before sitting next to Camplejohn.

  Merriman thanked his colleagues and took the floor to wrap up the presentation. His heart rate increased. He paused as he chose his words. “Sure, these are some great results, but we’re gonna lose this war.” He looked around the room and collected the startled reactions from his audience. Even Camplejohn and Greenough looked surprised.

  “We need to completely overhaul the way we work if we wanna prevail. Our current approach won’t cut it. Stash houses come and go, and cash shipment routes change all the time. We’re wasting our time chasing the wrong things. We need a new strategy.” He stopped to take a drink of water, allowing his audience to digest what he’d said.